


Inconvenience

by howtobeinconspicuous



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:59:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howtobeinconspicuous/pseuds/howtobeinconspicuous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad starts noticing Ray’s dark eyes and the line of his jaw. It’s awfully distracting, and not at all convenient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inconvenience

**Author's Note:**

> Set during OIF. Basically an excuse for me to write porn after finally finishing my NaNoWriMo that was shamefully lacking in gay porn. Actually finished this a while ago but am posting late. Also this is my first fic for the Generation Kill fandom and I'm incredibly intimidated because everyone I've read is incredibly talented so that's a lot of pressure. So I gave up on making it good like the rest and just wrote as well as I can. Cheers to Rachel and Jay for listening to me rant and pointing out dumb things I did. All mistakes are my own.  
> Disclaimer that this is purely fictional and based on the fictional HBO miniseries and the characters in it. I make no aspersions or assumptions about the lives or sexualities of anyone mentioned.

It’s somewhere during Operation Iraqi Freedom that Brad notices it. He becomes acutely aware of Ray; he’s constantly conscious of where Ray is, what he’s doing, who he’s talking to. And he’s always cared about Ray, but now all of a sudden there’s this clenching in his stomach when Ray looks at him for too long.

What with the whole _invading a country, being in a war_ shit – added to the DADT balls – developing feelings for his RTO is not the most convenient of things to happen to Brad.

 

They’re driving along some road going somewhere under some bullshit command. Trombley’s on the Mark-19, while Hasser and Reporter are asleep in the back. It’s after the incident with the roadblock, after Hasser fucking shot that civilian right in the head, and he’s not all right. He’s curled into himself – as much as you can be when you’re in a Humvee that’s packed to the fucking brim.

Brad looks away from Hasser, turning back to stare out of the window across his sector.

“Homes, do you ever think about how fucked up this all is?” Ray’s voice cuts into the silence of the bumping Humvees and the sounds in the distance of mortars falling.

Brad doesn’t reply, just flicks his eyes in Ray’s direction. He’s hunched over the wheel, eyes on the road and clenching his jaw. He carries on talking, as if it doesn’t matter that Brad hasn’t contributed. To be fair, it is how most conversations with Ray go. Him talking double time to fill the silence.

“Like, we got our fucked up, bullshit missions from the retards higher-up, and then we’ve got Hasser with his sad eyes and all that shit, and we’re just driving through this country, blowing shit up and yet we’re still being welcomed like we’re motherfucking heroes.” He lets the silence wash over them again before continuing. “We’re not heroes, Brad.”

“We’re doing our job, Ray. They tell us to jump, we fucking jump.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, homes. It’s fucked up, that’s all I’m saying.”

Brad doesn’t say that he agrees, but his quiet speaks for itself.

A particularly loud explosion from the east jolts Hasser and Reporter awake. Trombley’s voice comes from above them.

“Sergeant, did you see that? That was fucking huge. Wow.”

Brad hears Ray mutter, “Fucking psycho,” low, under his breath. Brad tries hard to repress his smile, but fails miserably.

Fucked up indeed.

 

/

 

Sometime after Ray bullies Hasser into smiling again – and what a fucking relief that is – and they’re in the Humvee, packed in like motherfucking sardines, Ray starts singing some retard country song and Brad complains. Ray has some bullshit excuse, as per usual, as to why it can’t be classified as country music, and Brad tells him to shut the fuck up. It’s the same conversation they have at least three times a day, but Brad finds himself kind of enjoying it. Which is fucked up. Massively fucked up, because when the fuck did that sister-fucking hick turn from being an annoying, manic little bitch into one of Brad’s best friends? And why the fuck does Brad notice his dark eyes and dirty hands _all the fucking time_ if they’re just friends?

Brad hadn’t had a lot of friends growing up, but he’s pretty sure that you’re not supposed to wank over the thought of their hands on your cock.

It’s around this time that Brad thinks that, quite frankly, he’s utterly fucked.

 

He pushes the thought to the back of his head, however, and gets on with his fucking job.

 

/

 

When they get to the cigarette factory, however, it’s different. There isn’t something he can constantly be on his guard for, there’s nothing to concentrate on. Not really. It’s like they’re being given a break at long last, and the men take their shoes off, relax, and smoke Iraqi cigarettes.

Brad passes Poke and Lilley talking about how this is the first time in over a week that they could have some sort of a leisurely wank.

 

Brad feels restless, and goes to talk to the LT.

 

“Sir, when are we going to be able to get into the streets and actually help the civilians that are being fucking shot at?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you a specific answer. We can only wait until command comes through.”

“But we are going to get out there? Sir?”

Fick hesitates. “I want to give you an answer that yes, we will. But…” He trails off.

Brad nods. “You can’t be assured of this?” The side of his mouth quirks into a slight smile. Fick huffs out a ghost of a laugh.

“No Brad, I can’t. In the meantime, maybe relax a little. Stay on your guard, be ready to move out at any given time, but – enjoy this slight respite.”

Brad makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, but nods again. “Yes Sir.”

Fick nods back at him and claps on him the shoulder. He moves on and goes over to talk to Gunny Wynn.

 

Without a mission, with this waiting, Brad doesn’t have anything to concentrate on to avoid the thoughts of Ray. It doesn’t help that Ray is being a pissy little bitch and Brad is really fucking worried. He’s trying not to be, not to show it, but especially after Ray punching Rudy, Brad just wants to fucking be there. Ray’s all silent and tight jawed, and Brad has been dreaming of the day that Ray would finally shut the fuck up, but now that the day has come Brad just wants to hear him talking about the idea that every war ever has been about pussy, or the lack thereof. Hell, Brad wouldn’t even care if Ray decided to sing some goddamn awful, retard country song. At least he wouldn’t be like this, curled in on himself and quiet.

 

He finds Ray in an empty room upstairs, away from the groups of smoking Marines passing around a bottle of cheap whiskey.

He hovers in the doorway, watching Ray sitting on the floor on the far side of the room, cigarette between his fingers. He doesn’t seem to be smoking it, just seems to be watching it burn itself out.

He looks up, meets Brad’s eyes. He nods. Brad takes this acknowledgement of his presence as enough of an invitation, and steps into the room. He opens his mouth, but realises he doesn’t have anything to say. He closes his mouth and walks over to where Ray is sitting. He takes a seat on a bench and rests his gun between his legs.

“You know, generally the floor isn’t considered the most comfortable of places to sit.” Brad says into the silence of the room.

Ray almost smiles and shrugs. “We voluntarily decided to enlist in the Marines, I don’t think we should be concerned about being fucking comfortable.”

Brad lets out a low laugh, before letting the quiet take over again.

Ray stubs out the last glowing embers of the cigarette on the floor, and then flicks the stub away from him.

“What are you doing up here, homes?”

“Just checking my driver is going to be fully operational when we finally get orders to do some fucking good around here.” Brad feels awkward.

“I’m fine, Brad.” Ray replies, his voice sharp. He brings his legs up, pushing himself to his feet. He turns to face Brad, standing in front of him. Brad has to tilt his head to look at Ray from where he is sitting on the bench.

“Okay.” Brad replies, looking at Ray. The light comes in from a small window high up behind him, and the light makes it hard to see the details of Ray’s face. Brad can just make out the hard set of his jaw, before Ray is stepping forward. Brad feels dwarfed in Ray’s shadow, and reflexively stands up. This brings them closer together, and Brad can feel the warmth radiating from Ray. He is standing there, stripped down to just his t-shirt. He’s obviously embracing the “relaxed” feeling – as much as any Marine while deployed into a fucking warzone ever can be relaxed.

 “What about you, Sergeant? How are you doing? I mean, we’ve all had our little fuck ups. Hasser with the roadblock incident, me and the fucking Ripped Fuel, you with your angsting over giving the order to Trombley that got those kids shot. Fucking LT with his losing faith in the fucking Marine Corps, you know? So how are you? Is this what you came up here for, a fucking heart to heart?”

Ray says this quickly, bitterly, spitting the words out. When he is finished, his chest heaves and he breathes in hard, staring with fierce eyes at Brad. Brad is startled by this speech, but replies in an even voice.

“No, you trailer trash retard hick, I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t slunk off to kill yourself.”

Ray doesn’t reply right away, but his eyes don’t leave Brad’s, assessing.

“Still alive.”

“Shame.” Brad quirks a smile. Ray reluctantly smiles back. Neither of them moves out of each other’s space.

“You know, I was about to jack off before you came up here.” Ray says conversationally, the turn of topic so sharp it almost causes Brad whiplash.

Brad swallows. “Right.”

Ray steps closer. If Brad moved an inch forward they would be touching.

“That all you have to say about that?”

Brad thinks this must be a dream, and he’s going to wake up any minute now, cold in his grave with the distant sounds of mortar fire, and Ray will be shaking him awake. Because the only other possibility is that Ray is actually coming onto him, and why the fuck would that happen in this universe?

But no, Ray is pressing closer still, and Brad can feel the sweat on his back making his USMC shirt stick to him, he can feel the line of Ray’s body pressing against him, Ray’s breath hot against his face. Brad doesn’t think that his subconscious imagination could be this vivid.

“Ray.” Brad’s voice cracks slightly. It’s a command and a question and Ray answers while stepping even closer, making Brad move backwards until he’s pressed against the wall.

“Homes, do you think you’re fucking subtle or something? I know you’d probably like to pretend that you’ve been focusing on your fucking job, but you’ve been staring like shit bro. At first I thought I just had something on my face –“

Brad interjects, “You usually do,” but Ray ignores him.

“But then I figured that actually, Brad Colbert, goddamn Hebrew Nordic god type, is gay as balls for everyone’s favourite pal Ray-Ray.”

“Ray, shut the fuck up, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

For a second, fear flickers across Ray’s face before it’s shuttered by a smirk. “I’m not wrong though, am I?” His tone is challenging.

Brad doesn’t answer, just tilts his head, considering Ray before him. He moves forward, pressing against Ray and flipping them so Ray is pressed against the wall with Brad in the position of power, towering over him. Ray looks surprised, but raises an eyebrow, grinning dirtily at Brad.

“Didn’t think I was wrong.”

“You don’t know shit.” Brad mutters, before crashing his mouth against Ray’s, hot and furious. He opens his mouth, tongue running along the seam of Ray’s lips, demanding. Ray obeys, and then Brad’s tongue is in his mouth, thorough and searching. Ray makes a little sound in the back of his mouth, and Brad presses harder against him, pressing him into the wall. He can feel the hard line of Ray’s cock against his thigh, through his combat pants. Brad shifts, nudging Ray’s thighs apart and slotting one of his legs between them. Ray makes another noise at the movement, obscene and unrepentant. Brad’s hands move from where they’ve been pressing hard against Ray’s hips, one scrabbling at the bottom of Ray’s shirt, pressing against the hot skin at the bottom of the curve of Ray’s back, which the other hand traces along the top of Ray’s pants, coming around to the front to hover over the button to undo them.

Ray grunts in frustration, tipping his head back to hit against the wall. “Oh come on Brad, you motherfucking tease.” He says, pleading.

Brad grins with his mouth against the skin of Ray’s neck, turning his attention to Ray’s neck while his fingers finally flick open the button and then carefully unzip the flies. He bites a mark over the pulse point where Ray’s jaw meets his neck, tongue soothing before sucking a hard mark over the bite. He pushes Ray’s pants open a little, tugging them slightly down his hips before sliding Ray’s underwear down with his pants. Brad wraps his long fingers around Ray’s cock, jacking up and down; settling into a rhythm while Ray makes obscene panting noises like a fucking porn star.

“Yes, fuck yeah, _Brad_.” Ray is saying, and of course he can’t shut up during sex either. He probably fucking talks in his sleep when sleep patterns aren’t so fucked as they are right now while they’re in fucking Iraq. “Bet you’ve been thinking about this for fucking ages. I have. I’ve been jacking off to the thought of your mouth around my cock, thrusting into your mouth. I see you fucking staring at my hands around the steering wheel of the car, you dirty little fuck.” Ray still his head pressed back into the wall, eyes shut, but his hands are scrabbling at the top of Brad’s pants, fingers fumbling with the button. He finally snaps it open, pushes his hand into Brad’s skivvies and fucking _finally_ wraps his hand around Brad’s cock, jacking it to the same sort of rhythm Brad’s pumping Ray’s dick. Brad makes a noise at the final pressure against his aching dick, an obscene moan that Brad’s only ever heard in fucking porn movies before now. He didn’t even think he was capable of making noises like that.

“Fuck yeah Brad, you fucking love this, don’t you?” Ray says, smug, and there he goes, running his mouth again.

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking hick.” Brad says, and if he wasn’t panting and more than a little hoarse, it could be claimed that he sounds fond. He finds Ray’s mouth with his own again, kissing him sloppy and open mouthed. They’re jacking each other off with their combat pants pushed down their thighs in an empty room in a deserted cigarette factory. Brad thinks that he really needn’t worry about finesse.

Brad’s mouth leaves Ray’s, and he trails open-mouthed kisses along Ray’s jaw, kissing down his neck and sucking over his pulse point. He leaves biting kisses over pale skin as his right hand pumps Ray’s cock and the other hand presses bruisingly hard into Ray’s hip. Ray’s breathing stutters, and the moans that have been intermittently coming out of his mouth suddenly stop all together. Ray’s hand goes slack over Brad’s cock, but Brad continues to jack Ray off, speeding the movements up a little as Ray’s body goes completely tense and this little half gasp comes out of Ray’s mouth. And then Ray comes all over Brad’s hand and Brad jacks him through it until Ray makes a slightly snuffling noise and Brad stills the motions of his hand. Ray slumps against the wall, panting, and Brad extracts his hand from the sticky mess left, and starts pumping his own cock with a sense of urgency. But then Ray’s hand closes over Brad’s wrist, his fingers brushing gently against the pulse point of the inside of the wrist, and it suddenly hits Brad in a haze of want that this single gesture of Ray with his fingers wrapping around Brad’s wrist is the most intimate moment Brad’s shared in a long time. But the thought gets lost when Ray pulls Brad’s hand away, and flips him so Brad is the one with his back pressed against the wall. Ray grins at Brad, and pushes open his pants more, pushing them down with his skivvies. And then, in a motion so fluid Brad hardly knows what is happening, Ray is down on his knees and swallowing up Brad’s cock in his pretty mouth. Brad makes a strangled noise, fighting the urge to thrust into the warmth surrounding his dick. Ray’s hands are against Brad’s hips, pressing them against the wall and keeping them steady as he bobs his mouth around Brad’s cock.

“I – this,” Brad swallows and tries again. “Probably not going to last long,” He manages. Ray just looks up at Brad from under his lashes, mouth stretched red and gorgeous around Brad’s cock and then Brad is coming, his hands scrabbling against the wall for something to hold onto. Ray just stays, until he swallows and pulls off Brad’s dick, grimacing slightly.

“Gotta say homes, spunk doesn’t taste so great.” Ray says in a casual tone.

Brad just looks at Ray from where he is slumped against the wall, and watches as Ray smirks at him.

Brad breathes in deep and then stands up properly, pulling his pants back up and tucking himself in. He watches as Ray does the same, and then they both turn to face each other.

“Well that was fun.” Ray says, corner of his mouth twitching.

“You’re such a fucked up retard.” Brad replies, almost on reflex.

“Yeah, the fucked up retard that just got laid.” Ray retorts, and Brad can’t help the grin. And then he swallows, eyes careful over Ray’s face.

“So, um. Is that – was that – uh.” He trails off, awkward.

Ray gives him a look, and says in a no-bullshit voice, “Well Colbert, I don’t know about you but when we finally get out of this fucking country and get to go on libo, I’ll be seeing you. I’d quite like it if we could get together and have hot, kinky sex that isn’t this lame-ass shit in some abandoned cigarette factory in the middle of Bumfuck, Iraq.”

Brad smiles, letting out a huff of a laugh. “I don’t suppose I’ll be totally adverse to that.”

“Fuck you, of course you won’t. You fucking love me. You think I’m smokin’ hot.”

“I think you’re a moody little bitch.”

“Yeah, sure. A moody little bitch you want to bang.”

“Do you hear the shit you talk? Or do you tune it out like the rest of us do?”

Ray jostles Brad’s shoulder as they walk out of the room. He stays there, walking close, arms brushing.

“Fuck you, I’m fabulous.”

“You’re alright.” Brad replies. And there’s no mistaking the fond tone this time.

 

_fin_


End file.
